Date: Thu, 15 Dec 2011 01:07:40 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus
Subject: "Glaucus of Korinthos" Part 1 of 2 Gay Male/Historical & Gay Male/Authoritarian
GLAUCUS OF KORINTHOS
Or
The Spoils of War
A Short Story in Two Chapters
Chapter 1: "The Barbarian Brothers"
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories
The characters and ideas in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be
used without permission. Please respect the integrity of the story and
don't rewrite
Chapter 1: "The Barbarian Brothers"
All around me my beloved city is dying a brutal death at the hands of our
Roman conquerors. I watch in horror at the pillaging of our homes and
temples and the rape of our women and maidens. I see our grandparents put
to the sword without mercy. I watch the desecration of our religious
statues and it is even rumoured that the victorious soldiers are playing
dice on one of our most venerated icons, the Dionysus by Aristeides.
This total destruction of Korinthos by the Romans is unconscionable; but it
is to be matched within a few months by the destruction of faraway Carthage
and the salting of the very earth on which that fabled city once
flourished.
And yet it isn't without precedent. It is only eighteen years since the
Roman Senate ordered the looting and pillaging of seventy communities in
Epirus in one of its 'just' wars. Those towns had been stripped of their
wealth and 150,000 of their citizens sold into slavery.
But why is this happening to Korinthos which, with Athens and Thebes, ranks
as one of the most beautiful, cultured and wealthiest cities in all of
Macedonia?
The reasons are complex and would arguably help to swell the library at
Alexandria with countless scrolls and tablets which would tell of the
political machinations of the Achaeans led by the Strategos Diaeus and the
insatiable greed of the Romans led by their Consul and General, Lucius
Mummius.
Ambitious and greedy, Mummius has seized this chance to add to his
"dignitas" and "gloria" by the total destruction of Korinthos, the
pilfering of all its art treasures and the killing and enslavement of its
citizens. And the Roman Senate will honour him for his total destruction of
the Achaean League and Korinthos by bestowing upon him the cognomen of
"Achaicus"; he being the first of plebeian birth to be so honoured.
Lucius Mummius will grow immensely wealthy in the process. He'll carry the
riches of Korinthos back to Rome where he'll share them with his cronies
and supporters. And with the crushing of the Achaeans, it will fall to
Mummius to dismember the Achaean League and re-organise the government of
the Hellenes in Rome's interests. The task will be monumental but he'll be
ably assisted by the historian, Polybius.
Loaded with booty and captives, Mummius will wear the victor's laurel and
triumphantly parade through the streets of Rome to the hoarse shouts of its
citizenry. Soon after Scipio Africanus will have his moment of triumph too
with the destruction of Carthage. The Roman Republic will reign supreme and
her subjugated peoples will live under the law of the "Pax Romana".
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Three days ago Diaeus and the Achaeans had met the Roman army in battle and
won a short lived victory. Quickly, the Romans had regrouped and put Diaeus
to flight. Left without a leader, the Achaeans retreated into the city
hotly followed by the victorious Roman army. It had taken the Romans less
than three days to subdue them and now they sweep all before them.
Later, we are to hear that Diaeus killed his wife and then died by his own
hands after drinking a poison draught.
But today, in the ensuing panic, I have become separated from my parents
and family. I don't know it they are alive or dead and I worry about my
mother and two sisters. Are they too being despoiled by the Roman victors?
I pray to Zeus and the gods of Olympus that this isn't so.
My name is Glaucus and I am eighteen years old. My father is Clearchus of
Korinthos and his home is on the far side of the city in that enclave
reserved for the city's elite. I am trying to make my way there through the
panic and chaos of a terrified citizenry. That is where our townhouse is
situated and it is where my father spends most of his time. My aristocratic
father is of the old school that holds a free citizen should not engage in
commerce but work in the public good. Therefore most of his time is spent
in the city's agora debating with friends and foes alike those issues -
both great and small - which affect the affairs of Korinthos and the
well-being of its citizens.
I, on the other hand, prefer to spend my time on the family's farm just
beyond the boundaries of the city. There I supervise the activities of our
agricultural slaves in the growing of grain, grapes for wine- making and
olives to produce the refined oil for which my family is justifiably
famous.
I have always loved the farm. There, life is governed by the seasons, the
planting and harvesting of the grain crops, the maintenance of the grape
vines and olive trees, the wine-making and the pressing of olives. My true
interest is in the good management of the farm and control of our family's
slaves.
For the moment, my father is happy for me to do this. Even though I have
attained my manhood and technically I enjoy all the privileges of a free
man and citizen, he considers me too young and inexperienced to involve
myself in the labyrinth affairs of the polis. As his only son, he has great
ambitions for me and he has exposed me to the best education and tutors
that his considerable wealth could afford.
I am proficient in several languages including that coarse tongue Latin,
which to my Hellenic ears sound more like the "baahing" of a herd of wild
mountain sheep and I have studied mathematics, the sciences, the arts,
Homer's poetry and the Greek tragedies. But arguably, my tutors gave me the
greatest gift of all - rational thought.
I'd watched the Romans steadily advance towards the city and with just
hours to spare, I'd given our slaves permission to flee the farm and seek
sanctuary within the city. I'd stayed behind just long enough to gather up
all our family valuables - jewellery, cash and documents - and then joined
them in my own flight. Accompanying me was my loyal body-slave, Diagoras
and an older slave, Perimedes.
Diagoras has been with me since my childhood. On my tenth birthday, my
father had taken me to the slave-market where he'd allowed me to choose a
male slave who'd serve me as I journeyed towards manhood.
I had been with my father to the market before when he'd purchased slaves
to work on the farm. I'd always been fascinated by the market and, on my
father's instruction, I'd watched intently as he put a slave through his
"paces". Father's inspection of a slave was always thorough. Of course the
slaves were as naked as the day their mothers gave birth to them. It was
accepted practice that nothing was hidden from the buyer.
Nudity isn't an issue for me. Indeed, it is the norm. I had seen my father
and his friends naked countless times in the gymnasia and of course I'd
seen naked male slaves serving at symposia. My own introduction to a
symposium took place five years ago when my father held one at our city
home where he'd proudly presented me to his closest friends to mark my
entry into 'manhood'. In the past, I'd been excluded from the symposium
because of my age but I was familiar with the room set apart exclusively
for these events. Father's is large even by today's standards and holds
fifteen reclining couches. The average symposium is furnished with seven or
perhaps nine couches.
I was proud to attend my first symposium and I had ordered Diagoras to
attend me. Like all the other slaves he was naked and I'd paired him with
the older Perimedes to act as one of the two bearers of the large wine jar
or krater. I'm not sure which of us was the proudest. Was it I because I
was attending my first symposium or was it Diagoras because he was a krater
bearer? How nobly he carried himself and how proudly he disported his
massive erection that was favourably noted and commented on by my father
and his friends. As his master, I watched proudly as Diagoras was called to
a couch where the strength and hardness of his penis was assessed by an
appreciative guest of my father. Diagoras was truly the envy of his fellow
slaves.
But I am ahead of myself and should return to the slave-market and the day
when Father bought Diagoras for me.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The slaves for sale that day were lined up abreast of one another on a
raised dais and even the juvenile ones were restrained by their
chains. Hanging around the neck of each slave was a tablet setting out the
details of age, place of birth, health, educational abilities, their skills
and the length of time they'd spent in servitude.
That day, most of the slaves on offer had been born into slavery and were
well adjusted to their condition. Even I could sense their docile natures.
But there were a few who stood out. They were very different in appearance
to the olive complexioned and dark haired slaves I was familiar with. What
made them different were the milky whiteness of their skins and the golden
colour of their hair which reminded me of sun-ripened wheat. And unusually,
they all had eyes coloured like the blue of the sparkling Aegean Sea. I was
entranced by their beauty; surely they were demi-gods from Mount Olympus
and not slaves.
I asked my father about them and he told me they came from a misty land far
to the north of our most extreme borders and in all likelihood they were
warriors who had been caught up in border skirmishes with the Roman
army. Exactly how they found their way to the Korinthos slave-market was a
mystery to me.
One small boy attracted my attention. He was about my age - subsequently, I
was to find he was slightly more than one year older than I - and he
presented a sorrowful sight with his hunched shoulders and tear stained
face. His widely opened eyes mirrored the fear he no doubt felt and he
sought security by clutching the leg of a young, adult male slave standing
next to him. To my inexperienced eyes the older slave was aged about
seventeen or eighteen years. I noticed the striking resemblance between the
two and I took the adult slave to be an older brother.
There were very few slaves of my age for sale that day and those that were
had little or no appeal to me. I was boyishly smitten by the young, golden
haired barbarian from the north. My mind was made up! He was the slave I
wanted my father to buy for me and as I told my father of my choice, he
said we must first examine and question the young slave.
Father indicated our interest to the slave-dealer who congratulated him on
our choice and ordered the slave to step forward. I don't know whether it
was fear or a lack of understanding of our language but the slave didn't
move; instead he clutched his brother's leg with both arms and clung on
with grim determination. The dealer tried unsuccessfully to pry the two
brothers apart and when this failed he took to beating the younger slave
with his cane. After several repeated blows, the older of the two brothers
spoke to the younger one in an unfathomable yet pleasant language. I didn't
understand their strange tongue but I did notice the soothing tone of his
words that were meant to calm his younger brother.
I was an only son and so I was unused to any displays of brotherly
love. And yet even I, a ten years old boy, was affected by the older
brother's concern for the young slave. There was poignancy and pathos in
the scene being played out before us and my father was quick to notice it
also.
But who wouldn't be moved by the protective stance of the older slave for
his young brother. How could you fail to notice the love and concern on his
face and he lent forward to wipe away his young brother's tears. What a
heavy burden rested on his manly, warrior's shoulders for surely he knew
that his brother was to be sold and they were to be separated forever. My
heart went out to the two brothers and that day, for the first time, I felt
pity for a slave. This was a new experience for me.
Tenderly, the older slave placed a protective arm around his brother and
led him to where we were standing. He crouched down in front of the lad and
gently spoke words of encouragement to him. I don't know what was said but
it seemed to pacify the young slave, who used his arm to wipe his nose and
his hands to wipe away his tears. Then they reached out and clasped each
other in a final, close embrace before the slaver ordered them apart. The
older slave stood and moved to resume his place in the line of other
slaves. As he did so I saw his body convulsed by his silent sobbing.
Obviously, the slave's devotion to his young brother affected my father
also. He spoke to the slave dealer and asked to inspect both slaves.
Unexpectedly summoned back to stand by his brother's side the older slave's
face was a study in bewilderment. But then he comprehended my father's
intention was to examine him and suddenly his eyes lit up with a new
hope. Possibly - dare he hope -both he and his brother would be purchased
by my father and they would stay together. He looked at my father with his
pleading eyes and smiled shyly before lowering his gaze to the platform.
I watched intently as my father inspected the older slave. Father's
inspection of the slave was thorough and followed the same pattern I had
seen him use many times previously. Despite his tender years, the slave's
body had reached full maturity and quite obviously it was that of a
warrior. And yet the youthfulness of his countenance contrasted with the
muscularity of his frame. This slave possessed the body of a man and the
innocence of a youth. The slave stood proudly erect and his noble bearing
hinted at possible aristocratic roots.
Even through my boyish eyes, I truly appreciated the naked magnificence of
the young barbarian. The slave was tall by our standards and he towered a
head's height over my father. With his well- defined musculature, the slave
reminded me of the marble torsos of naked athletes that adorned my father's
home.
But this slave wasn't carved from cold, inanimate marble. Rather he was
living, breathing tissue. Oxygen filled his lungs, giving life to his
glorious body and energising his muscles. Blood coursed through his
arteries warming his firm flesh to the touch.
And, like those statues the slave had wide shoulders and a broad chest
which tapered down to a trim, narrow waist. The powerful chest muscles -
each adorned with a prominent red nipple - rose and fell with the slave's
rapid breathing.
His anxiety was all too evident; the fluttering of the sharply defined
abdominal muscles centred on the deep indent of his navel betrayed his
nervousness. Stoically, he stood still with his eyes downcast as my
father's hands explored his nakedness. And like an unbroken colt, his limbs
quivered from the uncertainty of his situation.
This slave was truly a creature of beauty. His long blond hair was tousled
and he had the beginnings of manly stubble on his chin. His chest and limbs
were lightly dusted with a soft down that glinted like fine, golden threads
in the sunlight and a darker line of hair trailed down the centreline of
his belly connecting the chest hair to the thick, golden bush that
surrounded his more than generous genitalia. Two large, plump balls hung
suspended between his strong thighs and the thick meatiness of his cock
rested cheekily on top of them.
As my father continued his inspection of the slave, it did seem to me that
he was taking much longer in this appraisal than is normal for him. He
spent an inordinate length of time inspecting the slave. I watched - and
learned - as he gently weighed the slave's scrotum in his cupped hand and
nodded in approval at his burgeoning erection.
Father stepped back to watch as the slave's cock lengthened and thickened
until it stood ramrod stiff at a slight upward angle to the
horizontal. Then, as a small, pearl-like gem glistened at the piss-slit,
Father ordered the slave to turn around.
It would have to be said the slave's rear was as impressive as his front
and once again my father didn't hurry in his appraisal. His hands squeezed
the broad shoulders gauging their strength before sweeping down the gentle
concave of the back to the flaring curves of the buttocks. Again, Father
wasn't to be hurried in his inspection and he lingered over the job in
hand.
I was becoming impatient! Father was taking far too long in his inspection
of this slave. This wasn't why we were here. Hadn't Father promised me a
boy slave of my own and hadn't he brought me to the slave-market for that
express purpose. I sighed deeply and I hopped from foot to foot to show my
growing impatience.
It would take years and more maturity than I possessed that day to
understand that my father was infatuated with the young, barbarian
slave. My father had been smitten by his beauty and was determined to own
him.
Finally, to my intense relief, the inspection ended and Father told the
dealer he would buy the slave. Then he turned his attention to the younger
brother.
I'm not sure of the reasons - perhaps it was because of the slave's tender
years - but Father's inspection of the younger brother wasn't as detailed
as the one the older slave had been subjected to. Basically it was a quick
check to ensure the slave was free of defects or blemishes and once he'd
been re-assured my father bought them both.
When the two brothers realised they'd been bought by the same master they
couldn't contain their joy. They weren't to be separated. Both broke into
wide smiles and touchingly embraced one another. Their joy was infectious
and I was caught up in it. I was happy for them. Even Father's customary
sternness disappeared temporarily. They laughed and they hugged and then
the older of the two suddenly became very serious. He spoke softly to the
younger slave in their strange language - how primitive all other languages
sound when compared to the cadence of our Greek tongue - and they came and
knelt before my father and placed their foreheads to the ground at his
feet. I looked at Father and I saw him look down on them with an
uncharacteristic kindness. But the moment was brief and gruffly he ordered
them to their feet.
We returned home that day with the two, naked slaves walking a respectful
distance behind us in wide-eyed amazement. The thing I remember most about
that day is the brothers' awe as they saw the beauty and wonders of
Korinthos for the first time. And that wonderment increased when they
beheld the magnificence of their new Master's home.
They had much to learn and Father wasted little time in training them. It
was very much a case of learn- and learn quickly - or feel the wrathful
sting of his cane. He had little time to spend on their training and even
less patience.
But to their credit, both brothers were intelligent and they made good
students. Now eight years on, both slaves speak our language fluently, but
with an accent that still sounds strange to my ears. More importantly,
they quickly adapted to slavery and applied themselves diligently to
serving us. The older brother became my father's body slave and bed
companion and in the fullness of time, the younger slave came to serve me
in like manner.
Their joy at being together ensures their loyalty and devotion to both
Father and me and in truth, we love them in the true sense of "Greek love."
On arriving home that first day, Father gave me the task of finding
suitable names for them; names that would be engraved on the collars that
were to be fastened around their necks.
I tried to find out by what names they were called in their native tongue;
this proved to be an impossible task given our lack of knowledge of each
other's language and so I compromised. I had recently been studying poetry
under one of my tutors and I chose the names from those lessons.
The older slave, I named Perimedes after a companion of Odysseus mentioned
by Homer in his Odyssey and the other I named Diagoras after the great poet
from the island of Melos who had found sanctuary from religious persecution
in Korinthos several centuries ago.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Today, as I hurry through the doomed city seeking out my parents and
sisters, Perimedes and Diagoras accompany me.
Then, we turn a corner and suddenly, we are halted in our tracks. Ahead of
us Roman soldiers are manning a barrier across the narrow street and they
are stopping everyone. Quickly, we turn to retrace our steps only to come
face to face with an advancing group of Roman soldiers heavily laden down
with booty. A Decurion orders us to "HALT!" as he and another two soldiers
unsheathe their short swords and advance menacingly toward us.
We have nowhere to hide and it is too late to flee. We are caught between
Scylla and Charybdis.
We are trapped!
To be continued....